Saving Grace
by Destiny's Embrace
Summary: Against their efforts to prevent it, when grief counselor Peeta Mellark and his tragic patient forge a strange but beautifully moving connection, they become star-crossed lovers. In the wake of the inevitable pain caused by their love however, these two equally haunted people find the solace in one another and learn how the things that give us pain are blessings in disguise.
1. Prologue

**Saving Grace**

**Prologue**

_Peeta_

Everyone has a story.

I know that sounds like a really cliché thing for someone to say, but hey, it's the truth. Everyone has a past trailing behind them of people and experiences that have shaped who are for better of for worse, filled with grief and joy, failure and ambition, and betrayal and love. And if you take the time to just listen, they'll gladly share it with you.

That's part of the reason why I first became interested in psychology I think: learning people's stories. For one thing, I'm a huge people person, and I'll never turn down the opportunity to make new friends wherever I go. But beyond that is my fascination in how intricately different people are from one another. The way we act, think, or behave in a certain way…why do we do what we do… who people were before, and what shaped them to be into who they are now. It's incredible.

And another great thing is that it never gets old; just when you think you've figured people out, you meet another who completely rearranges you entire perspective. So I am always very fulfilled in my career as a grief counselor. Alright, now before you say it—I can't count how many times I have heard someone say, _"Why would anyone want to be a grief therapist?! That's sounds so depressing…"_—I just need to clarify that I love my job, and can't imagine having any other occupation. Second to being a parent, being a counselor is the most fulfilling profession that a human being could dream of having. Just the complacency of knowing that you make a difference in and help others rediscover the will to go is enough for me to want to do my job for free. But of course, I am allowed to be biased.

And I learn a lot from my patients, and their stories of pain and suffering have helped me grow as a person. Now, by this point you must be wondering what's _my_ story, right? Good question. Alright, alright, you've broken me down. If you really want to hear it, I will tell you. But first, I want to say something, which is to hope that you do not judge me because of the nature of the things I will say. It's like that saying goes, "Don't judge a book by its cover; you might miss out on a great story."

I also want to make a point in adding that great story is nothing without a lesson paired with it. My story is one as old as time; two people who were never supposed to fall in love, but did so against all the odds. But regardless, it's like I said before; everyone has a story to tell, and needs a person to listen. Sometimes, believe it or not, having someone just listen is enough to heal you, and perhaps the listener as well. So listen to my story and see for yourself. I am living proof to say that in life, you can be surprised by what has the ability to repair you...

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**AN:: Just a quick note I wanted to make. In this story the perspective switches from Peeta and Katniss, so technically it's both of their stories that are being told. I'll also just add that this is an AU story. **

**Anyways, I'm posting the first chapter shortly. Please let me know what you think :D**


	2. Chapter 1

**AN:: Sorry sorry, I said I'd be quick. But life and school gets in the way. Here is the first chapters, and thank you to those who already faved and are following. It really means a lot :D**

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**Chapter 1**

_Peeta_

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

When I was younger, I don't think I was able to fully comprehend this concept. Either that or I naively believed that nothing was fleeting and I took for granted all the things that I thought I would have forever. Now at thirty-three with plenty of years of life experience, I've come to really understand the wise words of Ferris Bueller and apply this philosophy to my own life. Just don't tell my clients I get all my words of wisdom from childhood classic movies though. They might laugh in my face, and I have a reputation to maintain here.

But there is certainly truth in that quote isn't there? I think about it all the time with my two children, Daniel and Meredith, when I think about how fast they are going to grow up. For me, that quote helps bring everything into focus and it reminds me to be conscientious of the beauty surrounding us and cherish the people dear to us always. If there's anything I want to teach my kids, it would be that. Life is too quick to dwell in the past, and besides, you never are sure when it's your time to leave this world. You might as well make each day count. And that's quoting yet another famous movie…

Cruising down the familiar roads as I get off the highway, I turn and drive up a little further before pulling up before a light colored building. It was two stories with a pointed, triangular roof and twin stairs that led up onto the second floor covered deck.

I maneuver my Subaru easily into the adjacent parking lot and twist the keys free from the ignition once I slide into a vacant spot. Stepping out, the all-empowering Floridian sun instantly blinds my vision and burns right through. Relishing its heat as I stretch my muscles like a sunning cat, I inhale the clean atmosphere and am further put at ease by the fresh fragrance of the ocean drifting in from the beaches and lively flowers.

As I walk up to the building, I pass by the large dry garden adorning the front entrance. In the middle of the patch of prickly plants and beside a small tree was a stucco monument sign that read in gold leaf text _"__Palm Beach __Garden __Marriage & Family Therapy __Center__"_.

**I live in ****Palm Beach ****Garden****, as you may have guessed, in southern ****Florida****. You know, just above places like ****Miami**** and ****Fort Lauderdale****. ****Palm Beach ****County**** is filled w**ith wealthy coastal towns such as Jupiter or Manalapan, and Palm Beach Garden is one of them. If you're a golf lover, this place would seem like Heaven on Earth for you. But even if you're like me and can't play golf to save your life, I'm nearly positive you'd still find yourself falling fast and hard for this little place.

Golf aside**, **Palm Beach Garden has everything I could possibly need. The therapy center where I work and shopping areas are all just over three miles away from my gated community, which means I could literally walk to work every morning if I really wanted closest family beach is Juno, which is only about eight miles from where we live, but we usually prefer to go to the beaches up in Jupiter—and that's just an addition two miles out of our way. I'm pretty simple like that. And it's very clean here too and the people here are absolutely the best people you could hope to meet. I'm originally from Brooklyn, and while I'll admit it was a weird adjustment to southern life, I love living here so much more than the Big Apple. It's great! Everything's in walking proximity like New York City, minus bustling throngs of bluster and of course its smog appeal.

I climb the stairs leading up onto the second level and enter through the double door entrance. A cheerful jingle of bells and the surge of cold air from the AC greet me as I duck inside and close the door behind me, and I look up to find my boss and fellow therapists. They all smile brightly to me and an automatic grin is plastered on my face in reply.

Including me, there are six therapists at the clinic—Cinna, Madge, Flavius, Venia, and Octavia—and over the years we have become a pretty close-knit family. Seriously, I mean that. We all go out for drinks once in a while, or even if I can't manage it with my schedule, the gang comes to me. My kids love them too and have adapted in addressing them by the titles of "Auntie" or "Uncle". If my kids or I ever need anything, they always have my back. It's a great relief like you wouldn't believe.

"Morning everyone," I tell them with my usual cheerfulness. From growing up in my parent's deli-bakery and getting up at the crack of dawn to work, I am very much a morning person. Even still, I don't dare turn down an indulgent cup of coffee as I join them in conversation. Black, just the way I like it.

They're all great and easy to talk to, but no one beats Cinna. Cinna, a soft-spoken brunette man in his early forties with bottle green eyes, is my boss and the head therapist, and he is also one of the closest friends I've made here. He is amazingly supportive and encouraging, an inspiration to us all in the way he can just listen to anyone and understand them like he's known them their entire life. He also has a strong control over his emotions and manages to create a perfect balance between being objective and compassionate. Cinna just has one of those personalities that instantly put you at ease and where you can't help but spill your entire life story to him. It's always an honor to work under him and learn tips from his years of experience, both with clients and his own life.

Cinna lives on the first level, which is only accessible from entering through clinic on the second floor. Typically people furnish their practices and houses in the opposite order, but it's Cinna so he's allowed to be as unorthodox as he pleases. It's a sign of genius, and I don't dare question this.

After chatting a little longer with the others, I nurse my coffee as I pick up my patient files and then retreat into my private office.

Besides being incredible at his job, Cinna also has exceedingly innate fashion and interior decorating skills. His clinic reflects that. The waiting room and the individual offices were all furnished and decorated with the latest modern styles and it's picturesque enough in my opinion to make an appearance in ElleDecor. It has sleek hardwood flooring throughout, accented with floor rugs, warm hues on the walls, artwork on the walls, intricate bookshelves lined with books and knickknacks, and plants. Real ones, I might add. You wouldn't believe how many practices still use those creepy artificial ones. But my favorite features are the incandescent lamps and the variety of windows that let in natural daylight, as opposed to usual inexpensive choice of florescent light. Cinna said he was trying to create a sense of intimacy and capture more of a home-like environment. You know, to make our patients feel at ease when they come here. It obviously does the trick. Seriously. Put yourself in the client's shoes and imagine how painfully uncomfortable and reluctant you would feel about talking about your innermost feelings in an uninviting office-like room with unbearably bright florescent.

There is no comparison.

I sigh as I ease into my chair across from the vacant love seat where my patients sit and rest my coffee on the side table next to me so I can flip through the files without doing a juggling act. A therapist needs to prepare themselves you know, and even though I mostly see the same people on a weekly basis, each and every day comes with it own unique problems that sometimes you can never anticipate.

My official title is a marriage and family therapist, but what I specialize in is grief therapy. In other words, I help people who have recently undergone a devastating loss; like the death of a loved one, a divorce. That sort of thing. Most of the time it's death though. I've only been a therapist for about three and half years, which is nothing compared to my co-workers who all have almost ten or more years under their belt, so I know there is still so much I haven't seen. But I've seen an adequate amount and am familiar enough with grief myself to know how it works and dismantles lives. Grief affects people in many different ways—depression, heightened anxiety, strained relationships, and even self-sabotage—and ultimately it's my job to evaluate the symptoms I see and figure out the best way that I can help them make that tough adjustment and accept them death…Which is actually a really lame thing to say because nobody ever wants to accept it.

My first patient of the day is a woman named Effie, who I've been seeing for four months ever since the death of her husband. Honestly, this woman really makes my day. Besides just her completely off-the-wire commentary about what's new in her life or something her husband used to do, there's so much I admire about her strength through all of this. She's had it pretty rough for a while, but she's hanging in there. In the first month that I saw her, she just said in front of me sobbing and letting it all out. Most people try to keep it all in, thinking if they ignore the pain that it will go away faster. In truth, it's the exact opposite, which is why I always encourage my patients never to hold anything back. After that first month, the tears did subside a bit and she could talk to me easily, having no problem remembering all the good times she and her husband had shared. For her, those memories are what keep him alive and they are keeping her going as she learns to live life without him physically there.

Of course, not all my patients are as lucky as she is. I have another patient, James, who I've been seeing close to two years now who lost his wife to cancer and a son to war. On the side to seeing me, also meets with a psychiatrist gives him prescriptions to treat his manic depression, and between my therapy and the drugs, there is little to no improvement. But that's what sucks about this job sometimes; there are just some patients who despite their desire to be cured and return to normalcy, resist therapy. It's not his fault either. Trust me, I know. James has confided in me on countless occasions how badly he wants to be freed from his bottomless pit grief, but at the same time he struggles with putting his family's memories to rest. I feel for the guy, I really do. And even if he is a hopeless cause, I hate giving up on my patients. If there's one rule I have to live by it's that giving up is never an option. So I'll keep treating him, and hope that one day something clicks. I've asked Cinna, and he's told me as much as well.

I usually see six to seven patients a day for fifty minute intervals. After each client leaves and we've made arrangements for things I want my client to do on their own before the next session, I spend about twenty minutes researching new techniques and doing paperwork before the next patient arrives.

After I've taken my lunch break at noon, I look down at my charts and gaze over the patient I am seeing next: Katniss Everdeen.

In her patient summary, it says that her younger sister was killed in a car crash caused by a drunk driver in early January and that Katniss has been refusing treatment for her depression ever since then. They had apparently been very close to one another, especially after the death of their father and their mother's own submission into depression. Katniss had had a few outbursts in which she had quit her job and broke all ties from her long time best friend. Last month she had tried to commit suicide, but hadn't gone through with it. Her step-father had found her in her house with a lying besides her gun in her hand and a few bullet holes through the walls. It was after that final incident that her parents had decided to send her to get help. Apparently, I was recommended as the best person to treat her in the area.

I have yet to meet with her in person, but everything written down here was told to me by her step-father. She was supposed to meet with me last week, but she never showed up. Never called. Nothing. Her parents had apologized to me over the phone, and said that Katniss had extreme anxiety and was terrified of the idea of going to therapy. It's understandable. People get cold feet about therapy all the time and it's normal to do so. Think about how hard it is on a daily basis for people not in therapy to face their fears.

But the problem that I detect here is that Katniss is being _forced _against her will to come to therapy. No, I don't know that for a fact, but considering how I've only ever talked to her mother and step-father, I think it is safe to say Katniss wants no part in this healing process. I don't blame her exactly for how she had acted particularly because it's not her fault. I know her parents have her best interests at heart and are concerned, but you're never supposed to force someone to go into therapy. Sure, we all need a boatload of encouragement to take the first step and a little bit of firmness, but good, lasting results seldom come from a patient who does not seek treatment on their own accord. I have no idea how this is going to go over, but considering that she never even showed up last time, I'd be willing to bet she'd make a consistent habit of doing so.

But to my surprise, there she is in the waiting room, glaring at me with a sullen stare. Granted she is a good ten minutes late, but at least she decided to show this time.

She was dressed in rolled up sweatpants, an army green tank-top, and a beaten pair of Sperrys. The way the clothing hung on her made it very clear to see that she recently lost a substantial amount of weight that a person of her size and stature couldn't afford to lose in the first place. Her waist long chocolate hair was scrappily pulled into a side braid and her overgrown bangs hung limply against her jaw. Her face looked ragged and tired, her eyes rung with great dark circles and olive skin. I knew she was a few years younger than I was, but something in her dull and weary face made her appear my elder.

Smiling with professional ease, I moved forward to greet her. "Hi, Miss Everdeen?" Her critical gaze doesn't waver, and I clear my throat, "I'm your therapist, Peeta Mellark. You can call me whatever you like, I don't really have a preference." Warmly I extend my hand to her and she stares at it coldly, like it is some foreign object that has just intruded into her personal space. It doesn't take a therapist to tell that she is bitter and already has formed negative opinions of me. With a tired sigh I lower my hand back to my side, still trying to present a pleasant front, "Alright then. Shall we go in and get started?"

Katniss finally frowns, the first movement she has made since entering the office. Her eyes take on a guarded expression and she looks me up and down, as if she is the one psychoanalyzing me. The point she is trying to make does not go unnoticed.

"So what now?" she says, her eyes returning to mine solemnly, and for the first time I really get a good look at them. Her eyes were pure gray, without any hint of blue or anything. Unbending, like steel.

I shake my head uncomprehendingly and she folds her arms across her small chest. She looks almost bored now, as if I am wasting her time.

Deciding not to continue this fruitless conversation in the waiting room with other patients watching us, I gesture in the direction of my office, "Can we talk in my office?"

She shrugs noncommittally and I wait to see if she will move. She doesn't, and I take my cue to lead her inside. At first my ears don't detect any movement behind me, but once I am a good five feet ahead of her I hear the padding of her feet trailing after me. Once inside the office, I step off to the side to let her in before closing the door behind her. At the sound of the door quietly clicking shut, her head spins on me murderously and I hold up my hands as a sign of peace.

"It's alright. It's just to give us some privacy so other people can't hear us," I tell her gently, hoping her distrustful gaze will subside. It lingers for another moment or so, and finally she loses interest in me and turns away. While her back is turned, I inwardly take a few deep breaths and prepare myself for the next fifty minutes of hell she will no doubt give to me.

When I am ready, I calmly pace towards my chair opposite of Katniss and settle myself down with my notebook. Looking across the way at her, I notice how tense her body; her back erect against the loveseat as subconsciously began to wring her hands. Her eyes flicker around the room; first to the window, to the bookshelves, to the paintings on the wall, to the door. Her gaze hardens as her attention returns to me and she presses her lips in tight line. I smile to her patiently, hoping to put her at ease. Rather it has the opposite effect and she unhesitantly asks me, "So what did they tell you?" Even though her tone is very monotone, there is something very snarky her tone. I can only assume that it is a combination of distrust and betrayal.

I shake my head to her, "It doesn't matter what they said. I all I care about is what you say and tell me. Alright? Only you know the real story and can give me real answers."

Katniss rolls her eyes listlessly, her lips still pursed in that thin line of irritation. I know she distrusts me. What reasons have I given her not to distrust me? To her I'm the guy who was scheming behind her back alongside her parents. Nobody would want to trust that person.

But I try again. "Katniss," I begin, but then cut myself short. Suddenly, I decide upon a new tactic. "You have every right to be angry with us, by the way." I say evenly, and her eyes launch at me, edged with suspicion. I nod to her reassuringly though, "Really, you do. I wouldn't say otherwise if I didn't think it were true."

Katniss seems to relax a bit while I am talking. Not a lot. Actually, hardly at all. Her gaze isn't as harsh as before, but she is still very alert. I wait to see if this will encourage her to speak, but I can tell by her expectant gaze that she wishes me to give her a better explanation. Then she will decide whether or not she thinks I am full of shit.

"A lot has changed in your life, and the last thing you need is to be pressured into making more adjustments. Only you know your real emotions and what is best for yourself. Nobody can make those kinds of decisions but you Katniss. I'll help you only when and if you want me to. But you have to be the one who initiates that." I pause and let my words sink in before adding, "But I think it was very admirable of you to come today."

She seems to huff her breath a little, her gaze lowering from mine. I let her sit there in silence and don't press her any further until I hear her finally mumble, "So you're here to help me?"

I nod, "Only if you want me to."

Katniss looks back up at me at this, her expression warped in confusion as her eyes search mine for something tangible about my words. After a long time, she nods stoically in what I imagine is agreement. "Fine."

After that, she sits there watching me and waiting to see if I say anything more. It takes her a while to grasp that I am keeping up my end of the bargain; that I won't help her unless she chooses to help herself.

Inhaling slowly as she trains her eyes down on her hands, Katniss exhales with what seems to be great effort as she wills her voice to find the words locked inside of her.

"My sister…Prim," She begins, a sudden shakiness creeping into her stony voice, "…she…" Katniss exhaled, fidgeting with her hands again as she sat in absolute silence. Finally bitter anger flashed through her as her hands murderously became clenched into fists against her thighs. She didn't speak, and I could notice even through my obstructed view of her face that she was biting her lip down painfully, as if to prevent words from coming out.

The whole time I sit placidly across from her. It is not my place to interfere here; this was between Katniss and herself. If she chose not to say anything today, than so be it. She was simply not ready. But if she did, then they would work from there.

I glance discreetly over her head at the clock craftily hung on the wall behind her simply to get a bearing on the time and then quietly resume the way I was before. After a few more minutes pass by, I look up to Katniss and see how badly she is struggling to say the words aloud. Now is not the time. She is still resisting against, and that isn't something that can be fixed in the reaming half hour of our session.

"Take it easy," I say soothingly, "You don't have to say everything all at once." She doesn't look up, but her muscles do uncoil. I pause before continuing, "But your sister, why don't you tell me about her. What is she like?" I am always very careful about what tense I speak in when referring to someone who is deceased. I've learned that there is a very huge difference depending if you use the word _"is"_ as opposed to _"was"._

Katniss still doesn't look at me, and I then add, "We don't have to talk about her if you don't want to."

To my surprise, Katniss shakes her head. "She's…_was…_unfailing kind." Katniss glanced up for a moment towards me for reassurance. I nodded to her to go on and she looked back down. She was quite and then shook her head, "No matter what anyone did or said, she just forgave them. And loved them….even when others wouldn't." there was a pause and then, "Everyone loved her."

I make an effort to smile easily, my eyes resting on Katniss compassionately, "I can see why."

After that small exchange, there is very little more that is said between us. Which is fine and normal. When I tell her that the session is over and she is free to go, she hesitates for a moment and I know she is waiting for me to book another appointment. Our eyes met knowingly and she nods with understanding.

"So…next Thursday?" she says in a low voice, reluctance still just as evident as before.

"Sounds good to me," I tell her, and after setting time that works for us, she heads out wordlessly without initiating any gesture of goodbye. I pause, my gaze following until she is obscured from my vision. I let out a sigh. There is a long road ahead of us, and I know I need to prepare for whatever Katniss Everdeen intends to bring to the table.

But at this point, there is no way of me ever foreseeing what actually lies further down the road for the both of us.

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**Please remember to comment to let me know what you think so far :D**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Katniss_

Is it bad of me to say I hate people? No seriously, I hate people. Everyone. The only person who I could never, ever hate in a million years was Prim. But she's dead now. Why? Because some bastard decided to get wasted and not give a fuck about who else was on the road when he murdered my baby sister.

Like I said, I hate people.

Have I always been this spiteful? No, at least I don't think so. I imagine I was a little bit better before my father died. And after that I tried to be strong for Prim, protecting her and taking care of her when my mother was too emotionally incapacitated to do so. Obviously I did a pretty lousy protecting her considering I let her die, huh? So now that the two most important people in my life are gone, I guess I decided I really had no reason to act pleasant to a world that I hate.

It's justified. But that's also most likely the same excuse the rest of the world uses to defend their actions.

Maybe I would be less bitter if my mother wasn't so self-centered and vulnerable and my step-father wasn't such a self-righteous, drunken bastard. Actually, removing the step-father from the picture all together works too. After my father died suddenly, my mother kind of lost it. We all did—my mother, Prim, and I—but my mother especially. When dad died, something in her died as well and like my father, my mother's presence all at once disappeared from our lives. But no matter how bad her depression got, not once did she ever seek a therapist, even when I begged her to do so for mine and Prim's sakes. Hypocritical of her much?

Then out of nowhere, Haymitch Abernathy came to her rescue and somehow swept her off her feet. Don't ask me how or why, because I don't know, and frankly don't care either. They met at a liquor store—naturally—and from there they'd had a whirlwind romance that left me and Prim, once again, in the dust. We, her very own flesh and blood children, the living legacy of her beloved late husband, were the after thought.

For that reason alone, I feel very justified to despise Haymitch.

I really don't even know what my mother sees in Haymitch at all. He's got a low-class personality while apparently he inherited a large sum of money–don't ask me from whom or why because I never cared enough to ask. That or maybe I felt safer not knowing. She was lonely and she jumped at him. I guess it's better than her being depressed and practically in vegetable form, but she never consulted me or Prim. Considering how she had already wronged us in the past, this was unforgivable. It just doesn't make sense to me. How the hell does a person go from being so helpless committed to someone to just throwing it all away like the marriage was nothing for another person? I don't care how childish I sound; that injury cut me deep and things can't ever be repaired between us. She never thought of us for a second and how we'd feel having someone take our father's very special place. Like my father was expandable.

My hatred towards Haymitch really started after their capricious wedding, when Haymitch decided that not only could he fill the role as my mother's husband, but as my father. Okay, maybe my mother with her screwed-up bi-polar thinking can justify that as being acceptable, but it is something that I can never consent to. I made it very clear to Haymitch on the first day I met him that nobody would ever take the place of Noah Everdeen.

But did that stop him from trying to play dad with me and Prim? No fucking way. So until I was eighteen and could legally move out, I did what any sensible but highly hormonally charged teenager does: I rebelled. Big time. Well okay, I didn't completely demoralize myself. Give me some credit; I still had to be a responsible role model for Prim. But was I a smartass who gave both my mother and Haymitch hell every minute of their lives? Oh yes.

On my eighteenth birthday and the week that followed, I unhesitantly packed up all of mine and Prim's belongings and moved us into our very own home, a small two-bedroom condo that I had bought with my life savings. It had been a struggle trying to get my mother to let me take Prim, but thankfully I was more hell-bent on rescuing the both of us than her and Haymitch had anticipated. They gave up, like I expected them to do in the end anyways. It's not like my mother ever cared about Prim.

From that point on, things looked like they were going to be alright for us. Living with Prim and the years we shared together were great; me going to college and getting a job in a home insurance office, Prim going to grad school to be a doctor, all the while always remembering to make time for one another in our hectic lives. We were one another's worlds…

Irritably I shake myself out of my trance. I hate it when I get all sentimental and nostalgic like this, and being with a shrink for an hour didn't help either. I have to forcibly think about something else before more unwanted memories float up to the surface. I come back with nothing.

Almost ferally, a scowl lingers on my lips as I glare out the window at the world rushing by in bright colorful blurs. Palm Beach Garden; a sunny oasis of palm-lined streets, quaint shopping districts, scenic neighborhoods, and exciting year-round outdoor festivals. It's great if you actually enjoy that kind of stuff. I'm relatively indifferent to it all honestly, but since this is place is the only home I've ever known, I stay and relive the same monotony every day. Even better, whenever I seem to go anywhere in this place I instantly feel a stab of memories course through me of my father and Prim, reminding me of the places we used to go together, or mainly just taunting me with the fact that neither of them exist here any more.

Again I remind myself that I really do need to move out of this county. Out of Florida for that matter. But then it becomes the question of where do I go, and that requires more thought than what I am currently capable of.

The bus drops me off at the outside entrance of the condominium complex and I indolently wander to my building. I seldom leave my condo these day—seeing very little need to—but the whole process of riding the elevator to my floor and fumbling with my key to unlock the door seems tedious and unnecessary. When the door finally has had its fun rebelling against my efforts, it finally lets me inside and I distantly toss my keys to some over-piled side table as my eyes scan over my condo.

It's the same as I left it, and the same as everything else in my life; monotonous. It's a small place, with the same light lemony hue painting all of the walls paired with matching white crown molding, and hardwood flooring throughout. For the most part, the condo is impeccably bland and unfurnished despite my living here for nearly eleven years, but I prefer it this way. The kitchen is the first room you arrive in upon entering, and adjacent from that is the living room and the hallway leading to the bedrooms and single bathroom. There's also a balcony that is accessible through sliding glass door in my living room, but really it's a small thing that's barely big enough to step out on and overlook the treetops on the uninhibited woodlands surrounding. Ah, what it would be like to just escape this life here and just live in the woods where nobody could ever find me and I could just live out my life completely unbothered by anyth-

Call it irony or just bad luck, but before I am even fully inside my condo, the fucking phone starts ringing. And I know exactly who it is calling. I march over to the phone on the rack, pick up the phone and then slam in back down in the cradle so I don't have to listen to the ringing. I wait, and sure enough, the phone starts ringing again. Growling, I relent and hold the phone testily to my ear.

"What the fuck do you want Haymitch?" I grumble, my voiced edged with violent intensity at specific words.

On the other line, I hear his gruff laughter and I try to detect by that how drunk he is. "Well, hello to you too sweetheart."

I cringe involuntarily and feel my prickly hair stand on edge at his term of endearment. He's been calling me "sweetheart" for as long as I've known him, most likely just to piss me off. I know for a fact that is what he is trying to do right now, but I don't let him have that satisfaction. I remain silent until he speaks again.

"Did you get my texts?"

I frown. Haymitch knows that I never use my cell phone now and that I keep it in a dusty forgotten pile on my counter. Granted, drunk or not, Haymitch wouldn't have bothered to have remembered the trivial details of my life anyways.

Haymitch continues when I don't speak, "You know, it's common courtesy to text someone back when they take the time to ask how you're doing."

I bristle at this and without warning retort, "It's also common courtesy to mind your own damn business and not to force someone to see some shrink!" How dare he preach to me about being courteous when he didn't even know the first thing about it.

Haymitch ignores my tirade, "So did you actually go meet with him today or did you think you could play hooky again."

Still fuming, I answer with a tight mouth. "Yeah, I went."

"Tch," I hear Haymitch let out a forced laugh of disbelief and my blood begins boiling again, "Well about time you woke up sweetheart and realized that this isn't the world according to Katniss. Other people have more important lives and things to be doing with those lives. They don't need to be waitin' for Her Majesty to show up when she damn feels like it so she can just be a whiny little bitch."

Without another word, I slam the phone down with a brutal thrust. Obviously it wasn't enough because seconds later, the phone starts ringing again. I let it go through, and Haymitch doesn't leave a message, redialing almost immediately after. I'd like to say I was a calm person who could simply walk away from the ringing phone indifferently. But I am so fired up by his haughty comments and at him in general that I successfully tear the phone cord out of the wall, glaring down at the crumpled pile with grim satisfaction as it clatters clamorously to the kitchen floor.

For some reason my heart is pounding and my breathing is all screwed up, like I have been sprinting. I don't know why I'm acting this way. People have said worse to me, trust me, and even though I know that their words are true, it pisses me off when I hear them spoken so candidly.

Struggling to calm my breath, I swallow the lump forming painfully in the back of my throat as my eyes frantically glance up and dart around my condo. Again, I'm not sure why I'm doing this, nor am I sure why there are salty tears are surging down my frail face. Fuck!

I press my face into my hands, feeling as lost and confused and unwanted as I had felt when I when I almost ended my life in this very spot. The bullet holes I fired are still there, adorning the walls hauntingly. They are there to remind me close to death I am, and how I am too much of a coward to actually finish the deed.

I remember that night so well, right down to the core of everything; the numbness in my soul, the cold steel of the locked gun in my mouth, my muscles coiled and my finger arched to pull the trigger. I was so close to doing it…but, I just couldn't. I couldn't fucking do it!

Unable to take it anymore, I storm to my dark bedroom and fall into bed, getting lost in a sea of crinkled sheets that haven't been changed in months. I honestly can't remember what it looked like in my room before Prim's death, when I actually bothered to open the blinds and let light in, or to make my bed. But I like this. It's my own space, dark and solitary, and I feel safe inside of it. Safety is a hard thing to come by in this world, so when you find it, you cling on to it for dear life and hope it never leaves you. It's so sad and pathetic to think that this dark bedroom and warm messy bed is the only thing I have left in my life.

But I know I'm screwed up. Everyone sees it, even I do. That's why Haymitch hired that Peeta Mellark guy to be my therapist to see if maybe there is hope of me being helped. Haymitch and the rest of the world is probably hoping for a miracle that therapy will suddenly a whole new personality to appear, because nobody loves me the way I am. And who can blame them when I sure as hell don't love myself either?

A sudden ache swells inside of me and I roll over onto my side and curl my legs into my chest, the tangled sheets dragging along with them. I close my eyes, hoping to find peace and tranquility, but all I see flashed up against the inside of my eyelids is rage and hatred.

I said it once and I'll say it again, I hate people. I hate myself for being me, my mother for abandoning me and Prim, Haymitch for trying to control and criticize my fragile world, Gale for betraying me, the drunk driver who finally sent me over the edge…

And then there's my therapist, Peeta Mellark. At first I felt good; I felt like he actually understood me and for some reason I just felt compelled to talk to him. But now I just feel used and manipulated. He was trying to be nice and say all the right things just to trick me into talking. Now that I am far away from his office, I can see him for who he really is; Just another two-faced trickster who can screw with my head. What a bastard.

But just for a moment, I felt that I could trust him. Like we were on the same side. But now I just feel betrayed again.

And that brings us back to where we started: I hate people.

* * *

_Peeta_

After a long day at work, nothing makes me smile more than finally getting to see my kids again. Because I work the typical nine to five day on weekdays, I have a system worked out with my in-laws who pick the kids up from school and entertain them until I get off. I can't express how fortunate I am to have them and their support, and they really are just pure good-quality people. My in-laws moved down here soon after Stacy graduated from high school—apparently it was a longtime dream of theirs—so I suppose it was a natural decision to decide to move down south as well. We live inside the same gate-community, on opposite sides I might add, but still it augments the appeal and security of living here and makes juggling my job as a single parent and a therapist that much easier.

On most days, my in-laws make a practice of taking my kids to Gardens Playground around the time that I finish up work. The playground is conveniently located in-between our residential community and the clinic, and isn't out of my way at all when I am driving home. I park alongside the curb, noticing the golden rays of sunlight breaking through the fissures in the leafy treetops that made the pavement almost seem to glow as I step out of the car and make my way through the entrance. I spot them both instantly as they all at once forget their game to run over to me. Meredith—whose name I've always shortened to Merry—reaches me first, and my arms swiftly swoop her up with a flourish.

"Hey baby girl," I coo to her with a bright smile. Merry is the light of the world. She really is; always the center of attention, talking brightly, smiling, making everyone laugh. She's also very smart and assertive for her age, and it never fails to amaze me how intuitive she is about people and their moods. I remember Stacy teasing me about how she could tell Merry had inherited my gregarious personality, and I'm amazed with how right she was. In fact, I think Merry is more sociable than me.

Danny is a little more reserved than his younger sister, and he does his part as the big brother, always looking out for her. He was three when Stacy died, and even though I was told that kids were very resilient, I always wonder how much he remembers of his mother now and how much of her absence has determined his quiet, serious personality. He's eight now, and Merry is six. Merry was barely a year old when her mother passed away, so I doubt she would have been able to retain any memories of her mother in that short amount of time. I'm torn between feeling relived that she doesn't have to live with the tormented memories that her brother does and sorrowful that she will never remember knowing Stacy…

"Daddy!" Merry squeaks excitedly, "Travis Leonard got to bring in his guinea pig to class and I got to hold it! He's name was Marbles! Isn't that a good name?"

I nod, trying to match her enthusiasm, "I love it. Did he have swirly patches in his fur like a marble?"

"Yeah! He was brown and white I think." Her smile brightens, "He really, really liked me Daddy. He kept nibbling on my fingers, which means he likes you. It tickled."

I chuckle as I adjust her weight in my arm and she keeps talking a mile of minute about the guinea pig.

"Daddy, can we get a Marbles too? I want a guinea pig just like him, so he nibble on my fingers. Can we, can we?"

I repress the urge to sigh at the prospect of having yet another responsibility to tack on to my already daunting list. With a gentle less than stern smile I tell her, "We'll see."

Danny is standing by watching us, and I smile warmly to him as I come forward to him and pull him into an embrace with my free arm. "Hey Danny-Boy." I hold him at arms length and fondly ruffle his shaggy hair, "Do you have any funny stories about guinea pigs that like to nibble on fingers?"

Merry giggles and Danny's face breaks into a small smile as she wordlessly shakes his head. My heart swells as I look from my daughter and then back to my son, the masterpieces that Stacy left me with. In them I see so much of Stacy and I; both share our golden blonde locks, but Merry has Stacy's bright green eyes and unruly curls and Danny is a lankier version of myself. They are perfection and I wouldn't change a single hair on their perfect little heads.

Caroline and Robert, Stacy's parents, come over to greet me and we talk for a little while when the kids run off to finish playing. Business and usual. After the kids say goodbye to their grandparents, I let them play for a little while longer. I sit on the nearby bench and watch them playing with the other few kids that are still there, getting up to push Merry on the swings when she calls me over. When they have had their fun and are hungry, we all pile into my car and head on home as Merry enlightens us in her loud chatter about everything that happened in her day.

Like I said, everything is within relative walking distance, so in notice at all we pull up in front of our house. Danny and Merry spring from the car while I gather all my things from the front seat and meet them at the front door to unlock it for them. Once they are inside and go off to do their own thing, I drop my things off in my at-home office space –which is also where I keep all my gym equipment—and make a point to go over plans with specific clients that I am meeting with tomorrow. Danny is constructing something with his Magnetix toy when I am passing through the living room and I ask him what he wants for dinner. Naturally he asks that I make my special, practically famous thin crust pizzas. He also inquires if he can help me make it. Both are requests that I can not refuse.

I tell Danny I'll start preparing dinner soon as I go outside to check the mailbox. As I'm sifting through the mail—it's all the same—I hear a familiar voice calling my name in the distance and I turn towards the silhouette that is approaching quickly. It's my next door neighbor Finnick Odair jogging shirtless up the road, sweat glistened over his sun kissed, muscular body and spiking up his bronze hair.

"Hey Yankee!" He calls jovially over to me as he nears.

I laugh at this good-naturedly and roll my eyes with mock annoyance. The first thing I learned when coming down South was that there is still an ongoing feud between the North and South. All I had to do was open my mouth and I would instantly be ragged on because of my hard Brooklyn accent. They were teasing mostly, but even still, I tried to lose the distinct traces of North in my speech and behavior. It didn't all that long either before I sounded like a pure-blooded hillbilly. Every now and again though, the Brooklynite in me makes an appearance, and usually at the worst times.

I first met Finnick on the second day after moving into the house and getting settled. He gave me a start when he came to my front door without a shirt and practically ripped my arm out of its socket when he went to exuberantly shake my hand. I think he has some weird fetish about not wearing shirts, and even when I've confronted him about it, he just laughs me away and makes me feel like a pervert for noticing.

Since I'm from Brooklyn, I'm used to seeing it all anyways, so Finnick and his eccentric ways didn't particularly faze me. Sure, he's ostentatious and clearly the word modesty is foreign to him, but at heart he is a good man who is extremely loyal. In fact, we actually became very close within my first few months of living here and in that time he opened up to me a much deeper side of his personality. Out of everyone I've come to know here, I must admit I am closest to him and Cinna. Nevertheless, we have a very strange relationship where we constantly bust each other up.

Finnick slow his pace from a brisk jog to a steady stride as he casually approaches me. He pulls the ear buds free from his ears and lets them fall listlessly over his shoulders.

"Have a nice run?" I ask him.

He stretches his arms, rolling back his shoulder. "Great," he replies with his enthusiastic, overconfident smile, "Those other guys at the triathlon won't have any idea what the hell just passed them." He pauses as he rolls his shoulders back again and does a quick jog in place. He stops as his grin broadens mischievously, "You sure you don't want to do it with me?"

I roll my eyes at him. "As tempting as that offer is, I think I'm going to have to pass." He laughs and I grin at him.

"Don't be such a pussy Yankee," he mocks me, "Come on, even though I will beat you, you still have a good chance at coming in second or third."

I arch an eyebrow at him daringly as an ironic smile plays across my lips, "I'm sorry not all of us are in the same league as you. Some of us have actual jobs that we do and don't have all the time in the world to be perfecting our bodies."

"Ouch," Finnick said sarcastically, defensively places his hands on his chest, "That hurts."

Finnick is a personal trainer, and a pretty successful one at that. He's lean and fit, and has always told me he thinks steroids are cheap so he avoids looking like one of those 'muscle headed body builders' at all costs. Needless to say he loves his job, and it's perfect for him. He knows his stuff well. Before we officially became friends, Finnick offered to help me out with my own personal fitness program, free of charge, and I admit my body's never been in better shape thanks to his advice. I bust him up all the time though about his job because of how much I envy the amount of time he is able to workout in a day. I make time to workout before I start carting the kids around on weekdays and on the weekends, but it's never enough to have a body like Odair. I try my best though.

"So what's on the menu at the Mellarks?" Finnick inquires nosily and I chuckle. Finnick is practically in love with my cooking and has little shame when inviting himself into my house and helping himself to whatever I happen to be preparing.

"Thin crust pizza with Mellark flare."

"Oooh," I can almost see Finnick salivating at the visual, and I'm wondering if he is imagining the smell of the pizza filtering into the balmy air. But he gives his head a shake, his lips forming an apologetic smile that seems torn with inner laughter, "Tempting offer man. Really. But you see, I've got a very hot date with the very lucky Mrs. Odair tonight at seven, and I have no intention of missing out on this once in a lifetime opportunity."

I grin. In all my life, I have never seen someone so madly in love with another human being the way that Finnick is in love with his wife–thankfully more than my cooking. You would swear by the way they act around each other that they were just newly in love. Nope. Seven years married so far, and going strong.

Finnick had explained to me that when his wife Annie was teenager, a bugler had broken in to her home and murdered both of her parents right in front of her. Apparently the police had come before anything else happened, but she would have been raped had they not come sooner. Finnick helped her through these dark times, giving her a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on. He was her protector and her emotional support, and she inevitably fell for him when she realized how devoted he was to her. I asked him once why he had fallen for Annie and helped her in the first place, and he had simply shrugged his shoulders and with an easy smile had replied that he had always just known in his soul that she was the one. "I couldn't just abandon my own heart now could I?" he had confided in me, "Besides, isn't love a test of going through the good, bad, and the ugly? I knew then that I'd willingly wait for her my entire life if I had to, and that's how I knew she was the one."

Annie and I aren't as close as I am with Finnick, but she really is a doll and it's impossible not to love her. She was quiet and kept to herself when I first moved in, but she within the first year, she warmed up to my kids and I. Now, she's over my house just as much as Finnick is and is always makes time for us. She really just has a sweet heart. They both do.

Finnick goes on to tell me about a new restaurant that opened up in West Palm Beach that they are going to, and how we should try it out when I find the time. Then he says something that catches me off guard. "If you can pick up a woman of your own, we can make it a double date."

At this, I feel the hairs on my body prickle upright and my expression register with shock. I can't say anything at first, but then I slowly shake my head, hoping to hide my discomfort at the idea of dating again. "Maybe," I laugh shakily. When I look back up to Finnick, I see the way he is staring at me solemnly and inwardly cringe. It's never a good sign when Finnick becomes this thoughtful with me, and for a moment I reflect back to myself with my clients. I imagine the reluctance to talk and be reminded of the things I am already painful aware of is the same as my clients at time.

"Mellark," Finnick starts, "Do you really plan on living like this your whole life?"

I shake my head defensively, "Of course not." And I mean that. Truthfully, I have considered dating again many times, because I want to have those things in my life again. Not only just for me, but so there's a mother-figure for Danny and Merry, because they need that in their lives just as badly. For the first year and a half after Stacy's passing, I couldn't bear the thought of being in another relationship. It was as if somebody would be taking her place, and that seemed like the unthinkable. Even after that first year, the prospect was too daunting to consider, the pain still too fresh, too raw. But two years ago, I may have finally seen the light and realized that Stacy would have wanted me to be happy again and that by dating or even marrying again, I would never disrespect her memory.

So I gave it a shot, going on my first date in years and actually enjoying myself and the woman I was with. The whole time I kept waiting for a wave of self reproach or regret to flood over me, but I was surprised when what I found within myself acceptance. I felt okay. Not great or affirming, and especially not exhilarating, but okay.

Of course, that relationship was short lived, and even that is overstatement. Even if I did feel okay with dating again, I still couldn't bring myself to commit and I ended things quickly. Realistically I think I realized that things would have never have worked out between us anyways because of our completely different lifestyles. I was a widowed single father of two who spent all his time either working or taking care of the kids. There wasn't any room in my schedule for me to try dating. Besides, how am I supposed to find the perfect woman who will unconditionally love me and my world; a woman who will love and protect my children like they are her own while still respecting their mother's memory? It's impossible.

Am I making excuses? Probably. If I were a real therapist with myself, I would be a real hard-ass and would be relentlessly trying to get myself to come to terms with the tangled web of emotions caught around my heart. But I am weak. Hell, I still wear my wedding band and the thought of removing it scares the shit out of me.

I catch myself subconsciously twisting the ring on my left ring finger, and stop immediately. No doubt Finnick has already noticed. He already knows about all my excuses, and while he tries to be respectful, nothing stops him from making his point known and from calling me out for being a coward. He means well and I know he wants me to be happy, but it's not that easy.

Finnick smiles sadly to me, clapping a hand on my shoulder in an act of brotherly affection. "She's out there Yankee," he tells me earnestly, "Trust me on this. I wouldn't steer you wrong."

I make an effort to smile despite myself. "Thanks for that."

He grins in reply as I let him go get ready for his night out with his wife. With the mail in hand, I retreat back inside my house and try my best to entertain the kids as the three of us make pizza together. It's hard, trying to shake off the conversation I had just had with Finnick and acting like nothing is wrong. Kids are very smart, and I am constantly terrified that they will feed into my emotions. If they sense my forced energy, they do very well at hiding it. And that makes my heart hurt.

What kind of father am I?

After they are fed and content, I help them with any homework they still have yet to do and play or watch TV with them until bedtime. After putting them both to bed and cleaning up the house, I instantly hit with a fatigue and I let my body sink into the couch for a moment before making my way to my own bed. In the past, I've attempted to just try and relax by sitting on the couch, watch some TV, read, or have a beer, but it's a guarantee I won't last that long. But as I lie in bed, my body aching with weariness, my mind is perfectly awake and refuses to let me go to sleep. Exhaling at the admission that this will be a long sleepless night, I train my eyes through the darkness up at the ceiling as I go over my daily schedule again: Wake up at five to make coffee and prepare for work, workout for an hour and a half, shower and make breakfast for the kids, get the kids up and ready for school, drive them to school, go to work and meet with clients, pick my kids up from my in-laws and spend the rest of the evening cooking, cleaning and entertaining the kids. No where did that leave me the opportunity to fit in dating.

I exhale louder again with increased frustration, willing myself to go to sleep even as my mind resists. For some reason I can't get Finnick's words out of my head. _"Do you really plan on living like this your whole life?"_

My answer to this question is always the same, so why do I never act on these feelings? When I'm honest with myself, I know the real reason. Maybe Finnick is right. I am a coward. And I'm a selfish father as well. How can I seriously be lying here thinking about myself and my own needs when my children need me to be concrete? Problem is, each and every day I feel as though I am failing them more and more. Like I am never good enough for them, and they deserve nothing but the best. If Stacy was still here with me, I'm sure they would have the best. But I am all they have left, and I am such a poor representation of a parental figure that it sickens me.

Maybe one day, I tell myself at two o'clock in the morning when my mind finally begins to dip into slumber. Maybe one day I'll be stronger. Maybe one day I'll stop being such a coward and actually make a stand for myself and my children. Maybe…

But in my gut, I have a feeling that this is just another one of those things that will always be put on the back burner of things to do.


End file.
